


Someone You Loved

by AnotherGallavichLove



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, But like... not in a toxic way?, Getting Back Together, I think most parts are healthy-ish?, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Mexico, Mickey has friends that aren't Ian and I'm proud of him, Post Season 6, Shameless Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 06:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherGallavichLove/pseuds/AnotherGallavichLove
Summary: Two months after Ian watched Mickey disappear across the Mexican border, he goes after him. It turns out, however, that it's not that easy. It seems Mickey has realized his own self-worth, and if Ian wants him back, he is going to have to fight for him.





	Someone You Loved

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be completely honest and say that I haven't gone through this as many times as I should have, so there are most likely a fair amount of mistakes and I hate myself for it. Regardless, a beautiful piece of art was created for this story, and you can find it [here!](https://butimnotme.tumblr.com/post/182936200929/someone-you-loved-art-for-anothergallavichlove)

**Prologue**

It felt like a blow to the chest; quite the literal blow to the chest. As Ian stood there, on the beach in Mexico, his bag weighing his right shoulder down, grains of sand slipping into his sneakers - his jacket too warm for a day like this - he was hit in the chest.

He wasn’t very close, they couldn’t see him. In fact, about four steps ago, he hadn’t been able to see them either. He wished now, that he had stopped those four steps ago.

Because there he was - Mickey.

It was just like they had planned; a beach, drinks, water - Mickey straddling Ian’s lap, hands running over his chest before he leaned down to kiss him. The view was stolen out of Ian’s dreams, and there was only one difference. The man below Mickey wasn’t Ian.

  
**Someone You Loved**

“We should get back.”

Spencer’s words were clear, but the way his hands tightened, massaging the flesh of Mickey’s thighs where he sat, straddling his hips, they said something else. One of Mickey’s eyebrows raised above the rim of his sunglasses, and he tilted his head somewhat to the side; his palms rested against Spencer’s chest, and he slowly moved them upwards until they rested by his collarbones. He looked down at him, unable to keep the smile off of his face.

Mickey wasn’t in love with Spencer - it wasn’t like that. They had moved in together as roommates, and they had quickly become friends, and then they had started fucking, of course - because, truthfully, the second Mickey had gotten the slightest hint that Spencer might be interested in cock, he had jumped on him - the guy looked like Brent Antonello and Troye Sivan, combined to make a single human being - Mickey hadn’t been able to keep himself in check.

Somehow they had managed to craft a fuck buddy relationship where the ‘buddy’ meant just as much as the ‘fuck.’

“Sure about that?” As Mickey asked the question, he rolled his hips in a very deliberate manner; Spencer playfully pinched his ass, and Mickey slapped his hand away, right before they got a death glare from a middle aged woman. Mickey flipped her off; it wasn’t their fault her kids decided to stare at them.

With a few more looks and suggestive words switched out in between the two, they stood back up, and ran back towards the shop, kicking up clouds of sand which followed them.

—————

Ian felt like Joe Goldberg. He may hate that fact, but it was the truth.

In the week since he had arrived in Mexico, he had spent a lot more time than he would like to admit, trying to figure out where he could catch Mickey - preferably alone. Of course, had he been his regular self up in Chicago, or somewhere else in the States, it would have been quite easy for Ian to figure out where he lived, or worked, or spent his time. But of course, as a known felon, Mickey didn’t have a phone, didn’t really exist on the internet, and Ian wasn’t even sure he was going by his actual name anymore. It would be smart not to.

The one time that Ian had actually seen him - on the beach - had been pure luck, and now it seemed he couldn’t find him anymore.

It was on a Tuesday that Ian - by another stroke of pure luck - was walking back from one of the food carts with a half-eaten panini in his hand, and he saw him. Not Mickey, but the other guy - his boyfriend. He was walking on the side of the street, only a block or two from the beach, dressed in surf shorts and a white wife beater. How cliché could you get?

It wasn’t a good idea - it was, in fact, a terrible idea, and Ian knew this. Despite that fact, he followed him. Past a few corners, and up a few streets, until he stopped. Ian watched as the guy walked into a coffee shop, and then came back out, a cup of iced coffee in his hand. Ian continued to follow - oh, god, he felt like a creep - he followed him back down towards the beach, and he watched him disappear once again, into a shack by the beach - Dave’s Waves, the sign said. A surf shop. It made sense. Ian wondered if that was Dave.

Ian entered; thankfully, there were more people in there, so he didn’t draw too much attention to himself. But as Dave - Ian had decided to call him that until he knew for sure - talked to customers, and gave advice about different kinds of wax and boards, Ian would sometimes turn to look at him. He looked through the different kinds of surfboard leashes and bars of wax, and before he knew it, the other four or five customers had walked out, and he was alone in there. He should have planned this better.

“Hey, can I help you? Know what you’re looking for?”

Dave stayed behind the counter, and Ian wanted it to stay that way, so he grabbed onto a bar of wax and walked up to the counter, knowing all too well that there were most likely a hundred different - better - ways to find out where Mickey was.

“I’ll just take this,” Ian said, and Dave - Spencer, actually, according to the name tag on his tank top - nodded and punched a few numbers into the cash register.

“Nine bucks,” Spencer let him know, and Ian fished the ten dollar bill out of his pocket - regretfully so, as that left him with ten less to use for food and a roof over his head. He hadn’t brought a lot of money to begin with. Ian told him to keep the change, and then he reached for the wax, hesitating for about a second and a half before he begun to turn back around. “And hey - Ian,” Spencer called him back; Ian could feel his spine freezing, unable to hide the stress that was most likely extremely apparent on his face. “Stalking me isn’t going to help you get Mickey back - just be honest next time.”

“Um…” Ian fumbled, taking the two steps back towards the counter. He couldn’t think of anything to say - this wasn’t like him. “You know me?”

“Of course I do,” Spencer shrugged. “He used to talk about you a lot - some of it bad, a lot of it good.”

“You’re together, right?” Maybe it was a stupid question, but Ian had to know - had to hear it. Spencer, though - he shook his head, and Ian frowned.

“Not really,” Spencer admitted. “We’re roommates - what me and Mickey are, or what we aren’t isn’t really any of your business, but if you think I’m in your way, I’m not,” Spencer told him. “So maybe spend less time stalking me and more time approaching Mickey like a fucking adult.”

“I know.” Ian even surprised himself by how steady and how sure he sounded. He knew. He knew all too well that following Spencer through the streets wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He just hadn’t been sure of what else to do. “Can you uh… can you not tell him about this?” Ian tried, then.

“I don’t keep things from my friends,” Spencer stated curtly. Ian knocked the bar of wax against the counter a couple times in replacement of a nod. He was just about to turn around and walk out, when the door opened.

“Man, did you see those fucking waves? They haven’t been that wild in weeks, I say we close this shit down for a couple hours and - “ Upon seeing Ian, Mickey froze, and Ian couldn’t blame him. In fact, Ian barely recognised him - of course he recognised him physically, he hadn’t changed much at all - but there was something different about him. A sheen in his eye, a glow to his skin - he looked… happy. Ian had never quite seen him like that before. For a second, Mickey tore his eyes from Ian, and looked over his shoulder; Ian figured Spencer gave him some kind of a look, or mouthed something to him. Mickey looked back at Ian, and then he turned around and walked back out of the shop.

Ian followed him, of course, but there were so many people, too many cars and houses he didn’t know - before he knew it, he had lost Mickey once again.

—————

That night, Mickey felt as if he was walking through a field of mud with haze surrounding him. It was as if he couldn’t think straight, as if he couldn’t focus on anything. Ian was back. Now. Here. In Mexico. Mickey wasn’t sure of the reason as to why, but he could guess - and that look that he had seen in Ian’s eyes, it made it easy to guess. But Mickey was happy here - more or less, at least. He had a great friend, an apartment, and a decent job at the surf shop. To most, it would sound like a mediocre life at best, but to Mickey, it was good.

Sighing, he straightened back up on the couch and took another sip of the beer in his hand. Then he tuned the television back it, but once again, he found himself just about completely unable to focus on it.

It wasn’t long until the front door opened and shut, and Mickey stood back up, walking over to Spencer, his hand on the back of his neck as he brought him down for a kiss.

“Thank fuck you’re back,” Mickey breathed into his mouth. “Need you to fuck me.” Spencer kissed him back - somewhat - but as he dropped his bag onto the floor and placed his arm around Mickey’s waist, Mickey could tell that he was tense. “Come on, man. Get on me,” Mickey complained. Spencer softly broke the kiss, shaking his head.

“Don’t you think you got some things to deal with first? Mickey, I just think that you’re trying to fuck me to get him out of your head, and I - “

“Of course I am,” Mickey sighed, his fist closing around a few, short strands of light brown hair. There was no reason to lie - they weren’t in a relationship, there was no jealousy - there was no reason for Mickey to pretend that he was over Ian, so he didn’t. He told the truth. “I need you to bang me until I have no fucking braincells left, ‘cause if you don’t - I… Please,” Mickey sighed. “Please,” he said again, his eyes falling closed. He hated begging like this - it made him feel weak - but he needed Spencer to understand how badly he needed to get Ian out of his head. The reality was, that if Mickey didn’t have any distractions tonight, he might actually go out and try to find Ian, and there was nothing worse that he could do for himself and his future. He knew that much.

“Turn around,” Spencer nearly barked the command, but he fulfilled it himself, as he grabbed a hold of Mickey’s hips and spun him around, pressing him close to himself as he pressed a deep, wet kiss to Mickey’s jawline. Mickey sighed, leaning his head back onto his shoulder for a second before he was pushed forwards and bent over the sofa, the armrest supporting his hips as he reached down himself, undoing his belt, starting to push his jeans down.

For a moment, Spencer let go of him, and Mickey was about to complain, but right then, the sound of the television was cut short by the speakers blasting Killer Mike, most likely as loud as they could go without blowing out, and Mickey was thankful. Spencer grabbed onto the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down together with his jeans, his palm hit Mickey’s ass once - hard, and Mickey yelped in surprise before laughing.

Mickey still had his hoodie on, and he pulled the hood up over his hand, holding onto the long sleeves as he closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the music and Spencer’s touch as he begun massaging his ass, a slick finger running across his rim. Mickey groaned in pleasure as he felt Spencer’s fingers dip inside of him, starting to stretch him out, get him ready for his cock. Mickey’s teeth grabbed a hold of his own tongue, one of his hands wrapping around his cock, stroking himself a few times. Spencer moved his fingers in and out, and he was already so fucking good at this, that Mickey thought that if he let himself, his eyes may be rolling to to the back of his head already.

Spencer’s touch left Mickey for a second, then, and Mickey breathed out, heavily. He swallowed as he heard the sound of a condom wrapper being torn open, and the click of the bottle of lube. Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. That’s the name he wanted in his head right now. Spencer was good. He was a good person, and an amazing fuck. Spencer. No other name should be in Mickey’s head right now. Spencer.

Spencer’s large hands gently cupped the front of Mickey’s knees, helping him up until he was laying on the couch, his knees propped up onto the armrest, his ass in perfect height for Spencer’s tall frame. Mickey could feel his hands running over his things and his back, before grabbing onto the flesh of his ass, groping him in a way that caused another unprecedented groan to leave his throat.

Spencer held onto Mickey’s hip as the tip of his cock grazed his hole; Mickey bit down on his own tongue once again, right as he entered him, stretching him out further. By now, he was taking Spencer’s cock at least two times a day, sometimes three, so there was no pain - only pleasure. Spencer knew his body, his cock knew exactly where to go to cause those sounds to come out of Mickey’s mouth.

“Oh, god,” Mickey sighed when he started moving, one of his hands still on his hip, the other on his thigh, pulling him back onto his cock, thrusting his hips at the exact right time. Typically, Mickey would try to move back, but he was too tired, too lost - he didn’t want to fuck, he just wanted to be fucked. “Oh - yes - fuck - fuck,” Mickey continued grunting on every thrust, every time Spencer’s big cock entered him, brushing across that one spot inside of him that always caused his eyebrows to knit, and his throat to dry out. “Talk to me,” Mickey said then, his hands on the back of his neck, as if he was hiding in the fabric of hid hood, face pressed down into the old leather of the couch.

“Look at you taking that cock,” Spencer obeyed. “So fucking tight,” he continued, letting go of Mickey’s hip just long enough to deliver a slap to his ass; Mickey yelped. “You fucking like that?” Usually he didn’t like talking while being fucked - didn’t mind it, but he rarely asked for it - he needed that now, though. He needed to hear Spencer’s voice, needed to be reminded on each and every thrust who was behind him. He couldn’t let himself forget.

“Not - not like that,” Mickey managed through his moans as Spencer sped up, his cock brushing past just the right spot on each and every thrust. “Just… Spencer,” he moaned. “Spencer. You’re - fuck - you’re Spencer.”

“I’m Spencer,” Spencer picked up, his hands now grabbing onto both of Mickey’s hips, each thrust becoming harder, more forceful. Mickey brought one of his hands to his mouth, biting onto the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m Spencer,” Spencer continued. He got it. He understood what Mickey wanted; what he needed.

“You’d never fucking hurt me,” Mickey moaned.

“Never hurt you,” Spencer confirmed, his fingertips digging onto the flesh of Mickey’s body.

“Yes - oh, god,” Mickey groaned. “You fuck me better than he ever did,” he told himself. “So fucking good - oh, god - fucking harder. Please,” he begged. Spencer picked up the pace, and Mickey just laid there - in a good way - he allowed himself to just relax, moan and cry as Spencer gave him everything he had, his cock pounding his ass, one of his hands occasionally leaving his hip to slap his ass, because he knew how it made Mickey’s eyes roll to the back of his head.

“Feel that cock? You can have that cock whenever you want, baby - this cock will never fucking hurt you, never leave you,” Spencer breathed, voice hoarse; he knew what Mickey needed to hear right now, and Mickey groaned in response, one of his hands back on his cock, stroking it in time to Spencer’s thrusts, but the truth was, that he probably didn’t need it. Spencer was so fucking good at what he did, Mickey would have been able to come regardless.

Mickey wasn’t sure what noises, or what words came out of his mouth, but they were filthy. His teeth dug into the flesh of his tongue, deep enough to taste blood, and then he felt his warm come paint his hand, his upper body completely collapsing onto the sofa. Sighing, he moaned some more as Spencer’s cock carefully slipped out of him, and he felt the heat of his tongue lick across his hole.

“Oh, god,” Mickey moaned again. “Fuck.” His entire body was thrumming.

Sighing, Mickey forced himself to stand up, and he walked over to Spencer, expertly rolling the condom off of his cock. He was about to sink down onto his knees, but Spencer stopped him; he unzipped his hoodie, his hand slipping in beneath the fabric, running across his upper chest. They shared a wet, passionate kiss before Mickey sank down onto his knees, taking Spencer’s cock into his mouth.

He was good at this, and he knew it, too. Spencer was only able to look down at him for about a second, before he had to lean back against the armrest of the couch, his head backwards, eyes closed while Mickey bobbed his head up and down, both of his hands moving with his mouth, his wrists twisting, tongue dancing across the tip at just the right moment for Spencer to moan his name.

It didn’t take more than a minute before Spencer stopped him, his cock leaving Mickey’s mouth. Mickey opened his mouth, tongue hanging out over his chin as the come shot over his face.

“Fuck,” Spencer groaned when he had finished, and Mickey stood up, swallowing what had landed on his tongue. He then placed one of his hands on the back of Spencer’s neck, the other on his back, bringing him down for another kiss, and then another one. Eventually, they let go of each other, and Mickey headed towards the bathroom to clean up. He found a pair of boxers on the floor, and he tugged them on before splashing some water onto his face, washing the come off.

Then he stood there, in front of the mirror, staring. Which wasn’t like him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it - Ian, himself, Spencer. He knew, all too well, that Ian wasn’t good for him. He loved Ian, of course he did, and he probably always would. But did Ian love him - did he really? Because when he thought back over the past few years, when he tried to remember all the things that he had done for Ian, he could think of a lot. When he thought about what Ian had done for him? The options seemed less frequent. If there were any.

So what was he supposed to do? Just let Spencer fuck him, so that he could somehow hope that it could someday make Ian disappear for longer than it took him to come? It wasn’t a viable option, but it was the only one he could really think of.

“Spence! You ready for round two, or what?”

—————

Maybe Mickey should have been surprised the next day, when he was working his solo shift at the shop, and Ian walked in - he wasn’t. In fact, he had, in a way, assumed that it was only a matter of time. Ian paused right by the door, and Mickey looked at him for a moment before he went back to stacking the last few products on the shelf, then he walked back to the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for Ian to say something - do something.

“Hi.”

That was what Ian said. Not ‘Hey,’ but ‘Hi.’ He was nervous.

“Hey, man,” Mickey greeted back with a nod, as if they were back home. As if they hadn’t been apart, as if Ian hadn’t randomly showed up in Mexico after abandoning Mickey at the border. As if he wasn’t angry. As if he wasn’t hurt. “What you doing here?” As if he didn’t know.

“Mickey, I… I made a mistake,” Ian told him, while taking a few steps across the creaking floor of the surf shop. “Okay? I mean, I realise that now - when I said that this wasn’t who I was I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry for leaving me at the border?” Mickey asked him, and Ian nodded as he took a few more steps over towards the counter. Mickey was happy that they had the barrier in between them, because if it hadn’t been there, he would have had his hands on Ian by know, he knew that. Whether he would have been kissing him, or strangling him, he didn’t know, but he would have had his hands on him. “Nothin’ else?”  
  
Ian seemed as if he didn’t know what Mickey was getting at - as if he didn’t have a clue. In a way, Mickey understood him. Typically, when they would see each other after a while, Mickey would be on him within seconds; when they had been younger, he had played him sometimes, but he had always wanted him, and Ian had known that. Now? Of course Mickey still wanted him. He just thought that maybe he was starting to value himself more that he valued Ian, and though it felt strange, it also gave him a pinch of self-confidence. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Look, Mick,” Ian sighed. Their eye contact broke for a second, as he looked down at the counter. Then he looked back at Mickey, who dug his fingertips further into the flesh of his upper arms. He locked his jaw; Ian looked so good - the sun down here had caused his freckles to become brighter, and there was a slight stubble over his jaw. His hair was as orange as ever. He looked so good. But Mickey knew, that if he let himself take a step closer, he would just… he would lost everything he had worked so hard for the past few months. “I’m down here - for you,” Ian finally said. “You know, we both did some fucked up shit, but I just - Mick… I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”

“We both did some fucked up shit?” Mickey asked him. Ian seemed as if he was about to nod, but stopped himself. “Listen, man - I ain’t saying I’m perfect or some shit, I did do a lot of fucked up shit, but half of it I did for you - I did fucking everything I could for you - let me ask you something, Ian - if you… If you can tell me one thing that you did to help me, or to make me happy, or whatever the fuck - something that doesn’t involve your dick - one thing. Then we’re back together, right now.”

It wasn’t a risk. Mickey knew that Ian wouldn’t be able to come up with anything. Because there was nothing. Mickey had spent hours of his life, trying to think of some way that Ian had done something for him, as a way to try to justify the fact that he was in love with him. If there was something - anything - Mickey would have found it by now.

“You know what I ain’t ever heard you say?” Mickey questioned once Ian had had time to think, and shrug. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I fucking appreciate you, Mickey.” In a way, he sounded like a stay-at-home mom, yelling at her husband, but it was true - never once, had Mickey gotten the sense that Ian really, truly saw everything that he had done for him the past few years.

“Mick, you’re making it sound like I’m - like I’m just a complete asshole. I loved you - I mean, I love you, Mickey - “

“You’re not a complete asshole,” Mickey interrupted, doing his best to forget the sound of those words coming from his mouth. There was a time when he could have thrown everything else out the window, just because he loved hearing that. Ian loved him. Ian loved him. Ian loved him. And maybe once, that had been enough, but now? Now he wasn’t even sure that it was the truth. “You just - you’re a good guy, man, you’re just a mess - and before you put some fucked up words in my mouth, I ain’t pointing to your - your illness, or whatever. You cheated on me. You ran off on me. When I gave up everything for you, you broke up with me. A lot of the time, you were a complete garbage human being, and I - I just don’t know if I can forget that shit.”

“You’ve been with me after that,” Ian pointed out.

“You’re not making the fucking case you think you are,” Mickey told him. “I love you,” he said, then, and Ian brought his gaze up from the floor, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I love you,” Mickey said again. “That’s why I ain’t been able to hold you accountable for all the shit you put me through, but now I am, ‘cause… ‘Cause until now, your opinion meant more to me than my own. You meant more to me than myself, and it’s just… that’s just not how it’s supposed to be, man. It’s not.”

They were quiet for a while, and Mickey was actually surprised - and somewhat proud - that he had managed to get through all of that. And until now, he hadn’t fully realised just how true it all was.

“What can I do?” Ian asked him.

Mickey had already told him. As lame as it sounded, he wanted him to say that he was sorry, and he wanted him to say thank you. Had he even been listening?

“Suck my dick, man,” Mickey shook his head, starting to walk away from the counter, towards the door to the back. Before he knew it, Ian was there, his fingers on his belt. “No - don’t literally suck my dick, man - the hell is wrong with you?” He pushed him away. Ian sighed. “Go home,” Mickey said, his thumb rubbing against his bottom lip.

“That’s what you want?” Ian questioned, his voice carrying an even more serious tone than before.

“I meant get out of the shop - gotta close up,” Mickey clarified. Ian nodded, and then he turned around, and he left. Mickey closed his eyes, hands on the counter as he braced himself, sighing deeply; he hoped that Ian hadn’t picked up on the fact that he had avoided the opportunity to ask him to go back to Chicago.

Mickey didn’t want Ian here. But if he went back to Chicago, he wasn’t sure how he would deal with that, either. Fuck, his life was a mess.

—————

“You wanna talk about it?”

Those were the first words that Spencer spoke to him that night - the second he came in through the front door. Maybe he should have been surprised that Spencer knew him that well after only about six weeks of living together, but he wasn’t - it didn’t feel like six weeks. It felt like they had been friends for years.

“Talk ‘bout what?” Mickey questioned, stealing the wrapped taco from his hand, as he sat down on the couch, throwing his feet up onto the coffee table. “No, I don’t wanna talk about it,” he finally caved. The last thing he wanted was to rope Spencer - the one person who was on the outside of this mess - into it. It had been one thing to tell him about it, but now Ian was here, he was an actual, physical person again, and Mickey just liked being able to escape to Spencer. Maybe that was selfish, but it was the reality.

—————

Things were calm for the next week or so - calm, meaning Ian-free. Mickey had even begun to wonder whether he had gone back to Chicago, and a part of him was happy. Maybe he would be able to tell himself that he had imagined it all. That made him feel calmer, more sane - as fucked up as it was.

Of course, all good things must come to an end. It was on a Thursday - the day when Mickey had the morning shift, and Spencer the afternoon one - that Mickey walked into the shop. The door was open, but he didn’t think much of that, because a lot of the time, Dave would show up early and make sure everything was in order, and all his employees had to do was man the register.

“Dave?” Mickey called as he crossed the threshold of the shack. He heard a few muffled voices in the back, and finally, Dave showed up - though, he wasn’t alone.

“Hey, Mickey - this is Ian, you know how I’ve been looking for a fourth employee to help out around here? How about you two get to know each other?” He didn’t wait for an answer, although that wasn’t unlike Dave - the guy clearly did a little bit too much cocaine in his spare time - and probably at work, too, honestly. He disappeared into the back again, simply a blur of greying, curly hair and a wisp of a Hawaiian shirt before he was completely gone.

Mickey sighed.

—————

“I didn’t know.” Ian was well aware of the fact that it wasn’t a believable statement at this point, but it was true. “Mick - I know how this seems but I needed a job. There’s a million surf shops around here, I didn’t know this was the one I was… I’m sorry,” he finished. It may be the truth, but he barely believed himself, there was no way Mickey would.

“So you’re staying down here?” Mickey asked him. Ian had been staring down at the creaky, damaged, wooden flooring of the shack, desperate to avoid his eyes. Now, however, he brought his head up and met them with his own. He wished that he knew what he was supposed to say, what did Mickey want him to say? Ian couldn’t read the look in his eye for the life of him.

“Yeah,” Ian just said. Even if Mickey hadn’t been down here, he was quite sure he would have stayed - he liked Mexico, he liked the beach. And if he was being honest, he was tired of Chicago, he was tired of the states, he was tired of his family. He was down here for Mickey, and he wanted Mickey, but it wasn’t the only reason.

“Just stay out of my way,” Mickey told Ian, pushing his way past him. He didn’t sound angry, he didn’t sound malicious. He sounded tired, exhausted - as if he didn’t have the energy to fight with Ian anymore. Didn’t care enough to be angry. Somehow that hurt more.

—————

Later that day, as soon as Spencer walked into the shop, Mickey grabbed ahold of his shirt, and pulled him into the bathroom in the back of the shack. He kissed him passionately, hands wandering across his body, slipping beneath his shirt.

“What - what’s this about?” Was what Spencer managed to mumble in between kisses, one of his hands joining Mickey’s down by the waistband of his shorts, pushing them down.

“You complaining?” Mickey asked him, breaking the make-out session in order to press his lips against his collarbone, the hand on the back of his neck, urging Spencer to mark him up just as good.

“Well - no,” Spencer let him know - there was no way he was complaining, especially not with Mickey’s hand wrapped around his cock, moving up and down quickly in a way that forced him to sort through his brain for an image that would help him keep his orgasm distant.

“That fucking asshole got a job here - kiss me - need you to fuck me until this fucking building shakes,” Mickey told him, kissing him wildly. A few seconds later, though, Spencer shook his head, pushing Mickey away from himself.

“I’m not doing this - look, I’ll fuck you any time you want, to get him out of your head, or to let off some steam or whatever, but I will not fuck you because you want him to hear you,” Spencer told him, voice slightly deeper than normal. He wasn’t angry - he cared about Mickey; he was upset that Mickey didn’t seem to have enough self-respect to care about himself. “You need to get some fucking distance,” Spencer warned him, as he put his dick back into his shorts. “Talk to him, Mick. To get back together, or to get closure, whatever you want - but this… this isn’t the way, man, this ain’t it.”

Spencer walked out, leaving Mickey in the bathroom to turn his words over in his head.

—————

The night was dark, the music loud.

For the most part, Mickey liked the weekend beach parties - there were just enough lights strung up that you wouldn’t crash into anybody, though still dark enough that you could talk yourself into believing any mistakes made tonight would be washed away tomorrow. Whoever chose the music, always chose indie bands, or rap - none of that contemporary pop crap. The crowd was large, shirts were rare, and the water was black.

So yes - typically, this was Mickey’s scene these days. He would get drunk, hook up with someone who wasn’t Spencer for once - sometimes two someone’s.

Tonight, though, he wasn’t quite feeling it. He had a beer in his hand - his third - and he was sitting with Spencer and a few other people, all of whom were engaged in a conversation with each other. Now and again, they would try to involve him in the discussion, but all he could do was grunt. He didn’t even have much motivation to bring the can of beer up to his mouth anymore; he just had way to much on his mind.

He turned his head to look at Spencer - he was laughing. Smiling. When he caught Mickey’s eye, his expression didn’t falter for a single second. Mickey wished that it had. He wished that he could wave off yesterday’s words as him being angry, but he wasn’t - Spencer wasn’t upset with Mickey now, and he hadn’t been then. He had told the truth as he had seen it, because that was what Spencer did. That was his thing - honesty, and kindness and other bullshit that Mickey wished he could wave off as well, but couldn’t.

‘Talk to him.’

That was what Spencer had told Mickey.

‘Get back together, or get some closure.’

He was right. Mickey knew this. He was just terrified that if he did that, it would end with them back together. Because he was weak - when it came to Ian - he was weak, and he always had been. His face, his presence, his touch, his fucking voice - everything made Mickey weak - that was why he didn’t want to talk to him. It was also the reason why he had to. Because if he left things like this - if he continued to avoid him, then… well, then maybe the rest of his foreseeable future would be this. Sitting in a group of people, alone. In the middle of music so loud it could cause an earthquake, able to hear nothing but his own thoughts.

“You okay?” Spencer’s whisper caught Mickey off guard, causing him to flinch slightly before settling down. “Talk to him,” Spencer said then.

The old Mickey would have argued with him, but this Mickey was older, brighter. And this Mickey knew that he was right. So he got up, and he started walking through the crowd until it faded behind him, the music doing the same, the crashing of the waves taking over as the soft sand enveloped his bare toes. Mickey breathed heavily; not because he was out of breath - he was just tired. He was tired of this - of Ian - of fighting himself, of thinking, of wondering what he should be doing.

Mickey had a vague memory of catching sight of Ian earlier tonight - he was here, somewhere - but he couldn’t find him now, and in a way, he didn’t mind. He was grateful he had found an excuse to leave Spencer and the others - all of them, every single person in that crowd, the music - as he sank down into the sand, braiding his own fingers together, he dipped his head, and he closed his eyes.

Fuck.

He felt so weak - not just because of Ian - he just felt weak in general. Weak because he had let Ian hurt him, weak because sometimes he missed the sound of sister’s voice, or the feeling of the bed he had grown up sleeping in; weak because the creaking of the floor of the shack reminded him of the creaking floors in the Milkovich house. Mickey felt weak because since he had gotten here, and had been granted more time to think, with every day that passed, he begun to realise that he didn’t always feel like as much of an adult as he would like to.

Mickey wished that all of his issues were related to Ian. He wished to God. It would be so much easier. But they weren’t - this wasn’t all about Ian. It was about him. It was about Mandy, it was about Mexico, about Chicago.

“Hey.”

Mickey swallowed before he brought his head up, looking at Ian where he stood next to him, looking down; his hands were in the pockets of his shorts. With nothing but the moonlight to help him make out the shape, he couldn’t read the look on his face, so all he did was nod slightly, before staring back out over the ocean surface. Ian seemed to take that as permission to sit down next to him. Mickey’s fingers twitched - wanted to reach out - he forced himself not to. It would feel so good, so have that again, even if it was just for tonight, but he couldn’t let himself. Could not let himself be quite that weak. Not again.

“I was a little bit of a dick to you, huh?”

“That a question?” As soon as the biting words escaped out from in between Mickey’s lips, blinked slowly, wishing that he had stopped himself. For a long time, he had told himself that he wasn’t angry - that he was above that, and that he was simply done with Ian, and that there was no bad blood, or unfinished business. Simply finished business. It wasn’t the truth - Mickey was angry; hurt - and it didn’t matter how weak it made him feel, or how much he would love to fake a brave face. He couldn’t fake anything with Ian.

“No,” Ian told him. Mickey turned his head - just slightly - enough that he could look at him through his peripheral vision. “Not, it’s not a question, Mick. I was a dick - I was uh… I was a really bad boyfriend. A lot of the shit I did, I can blame on being - you know, being sick - but I didn’t cheat on you because I was bipolar. I cheated on you because I was a piece of shit, and you know… I didn’t see what I had, didn’t appreciate it.”

The waves were loud, the music was muffled. At some point, it had been Snoop Dogg, now it was some kind of indie band that Mickey didn’t recognise - he wished that he didn’t have to hear it; didn’t have to hear the emotion in the singer’s voice. Just as he wished he didn’t have to hear the emotion in Ian’s voice; at the same time, he wished that he could hear it again. And again.

“That from a Nicolas Sparks movie or some shit?”

Mickey would love to believe that Ian was being genuine - that he understood. And in a way, he supposed he wished that he wasn’t being genuine. That he had stolen those words from somebody else, so that he could get into Mickey’s pants one last time, because maybe if he had done that, if Ian didn’t mean any of that, then Mickey could break his nose one last time, and go off and fall in love with somebody else. Leave Ian behind him. Let that be that.

“It’s not from a movie. It’s the truth. I was so used to being someone you loved, that I uh… I guess I forgot to love you back.”

Mickey didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. If he opened his mouth, he would either tell Ian that he still loved him, and they would end up fucking right here, or he would tell him that he was a piece of shit, and he would break his nose - he didn’t really feel like waking up tomorrow morning with the memory of either. So he sat there, breathing, staring out across the waves - and he said nothing.

“You know, I saw you,” Ian told him. “The day I came down here - I ended up on this beach, and I saw you. You were uh… you were with Spencer, and you were kissing him - laughing. God, Mick, I haven’t seen you that happy in… I don’t even know. And I was jealous, you know, of course - but uh… I was happy, too. Seeing you smile like that, it didn’t matter that it wasn’t because of me, that it wasn’t me you were kissing - your smile is so fucking beautiful, Mick - that’s all I want. For you to live your life smiling like that.” Ian paused then. For quite a while. “So I’m leaving.”

Mickey turned his head, the motion so fast that it nearly startled himself.

“If that’s what you want,” Ian clarified. “I’m leaving. Because I want you to be happy - I love you, okay - and you’ve done so much for me, and you went through so much shit, fuck, Mick - you went to prison for me,” Ian chuckled sadly, as they stared into each other’s eyes, the moonlight falling upon them both. “If you don’t wanna be with me, Mick - I’m not gonna take up any more of your time trying to get you to change your mind,” Ian shrugged.

Mickey didn’t know what to say. A year ago, he wouldn’t even have been able to fathom Ian saying these words, understanding him in this way - hell, a year ago, he hadn’t even been able to think about things this way.

“You really think I don’t wanna be with you?” Mickey finally got out. Ian shrugged, and he sighed in response. “I love you, man - that’s… that’s what I told you that day when you came to the surf shop, and it sure as shit hadn’t changed in a couple days, but I just…”

Ian waited for the rest - Mickey looked for it; he couldn’t find it. It was somewhere, up inside of his brain, but it was tangled together with thoughts of Chicago, of his sister, of Spencer, of what he wanted to do with his life, thoughts of what he wanted to eat tonight, thoughts of his family, thoughts of whether he should start looking for a more stable job - EVERYTHING. Mickey’s brain was such a goddamn cluttered attic, he didn’t even know what he was looking for anymore.

“Is there a Sizzler’s down here?” Ian suddenly asked, and Mickey frowned, shrugging.

“I don’t fucking know - how the hell am I supposed to know?”

“‘Cause we’ve never actually been on a real date - I think I owe you one of those.” Mickey rolled his eyes, fighting a smile. Vaguely, he could recall a similar conversation a few years ago; they had been drunk, and they had been singing, dancing as they had walked home. Something had happened - there had been so much shit going on, he couldn’t recall exactly what had stopped them from going to Sizzler’s that night, but in any case, they hadn’t.

“You’re not taking me on a fucking date, Gallagher,” Mickey mumbled, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“‘Cause…” Mickey tried. “What’s the fucking point - what you wanna do, sit across from me, ask me my favourite colour?”

“It’s green,” Ian said without a second’s hesitation. “And I wanna take you out ‘cause you deserve it. The least I can do is take you out on a date, let you get drunk on beer that doesn’t come out of a can, and chew down a steak that hasn’t been frozen.”

“There ain’t Sizzlers around here anyway, man,” Mickey shrugged. It was a lame thing to say, but he couldn’t find another option - couldn’t find the words to agree, and he couldn’t find the words to disagree. The thought of sitting across from Ian in a dimly lit restaurant - diner, café, bar - whatever the fuck, it freaked him out a little bit. They had never done that back when they had actually been in a good relationship, and now…? It was a scary thought. He could kiss Ian, fuck him, suck his dick, scream at him - sitting in silence, or worse - having an actual conversation - how was he supposed to do that? What if it came down to it, and it turned out that they were just… too far apart as people?

“Okay,” Ian finally said - as if he had taken Mickey’s response as a no, and while not incorrect… it bothered Mickey. He hadn’t meant to say no, he had just wanted to buy himself some time.

“Sure there’s some other places, though.” Mickey turned his head to look at Ian, and once again their eyes met through the moonlight.

“So you’ll let me take you out?”

“Don’t - don’t get ahead of yourself, Gallagher - okay? Still a lot of shit to work through, but yeah - you can buy me a fucking steak.”

Ian smiled. Not in that overly expressive way that used to send a chill down Mickey’s spine - a bad chill - the smile that had been on Ian’s face when he had come home in the middle of the night with dollar bills down his shorts - no, this was a real smile. A healthy smile.

“Alright, alright - your fucking cheeks are gonna split,” Mickey mumbled, though as the waves continued to move beneath the moon, his own cheeks ached with the need to smile.

—————

“Everyone who’s not Spencer, out of here!” Mickey called as soon as he entered the apartment. Spencer had moved a corner of the party inside, and the music was loud, cans of beer empty, voices laughing. As much as Mickey tended to find himself in situations like this one, he wasn’t feeling it tonight. All he wanted to do was sit next to Spencer, drink beer and get high - he wouldn’t object to an episode or two of those ridiculous French soap operas that he pretended to hate - who even knew French soap operas were a thing? And who watched them in fucking Mexico? Spencer did. “Out!” Mickey repeated, and a few curse words and middle fingers were thrown his way - and returned, of course - before the volume of the music was lowered, and the crowd thinned.

“Coeurs Et Sang?” Spencer asked Mickey as he dumped the last bit of a beer down into the sink. “We’re almost caught up.” Mickey sighed in a way that made it seem as if he only agreed to it, and didn’t actually want to watch the stupid show, but the reality was, that there wasn’t much more he wanted to do right now than bury himself in dramatic, fictional relationship dramas, and forget about his own.

“He asked me out.” Despite that fact - those words were out of Mickey’s mouth before he could do much about it.

“Out, out?” Spencer questioned, as he sat down next to him on the couch; Mickey accepted the beer he was being offered, nodding.

“Yeah - I said yes, I think - you think I’m weak?” Typically, Mickey wasn’t one to go to his friends for advice, but Spencer was smart, and nice, and Mickey knew that he had his back, and wanted the best of him - all that shit - so now, as his mind was too clogged to deal with himself, he knew. He needed to hear somebody else tell him that this was okay.

“You’re not weak - Mickey, look, you shouldn’t put yourself back in a toxic situation, but I don’t think that’s what this is - I mean, I don’t know all the facts, and I didn’t wanna say anything before, but… he seems genuine to me, man. Think he loves you - just… take your time, you know?”

“Thanks, Dr Phil,” Mickey nodded. The words were salty, but his tone was genuine - he meant it.

Mickey and Spencer didn’t speak more that night; they got high, and they drank beer, and they watched as Fentine and Fabian figured out that they were siblings, just as Fentine was about to give birth to their child, who turned out to be Fabian’s half-brother’s sister’s husband’s biological child.

—————

Mickey put the surf boards up outside of the shack - then he took them down, and placed them in a different way. Then he went inside and made sure that the stacks of wax were steady. Then he went back out and corrected the way in which the boards were displayed. He was acting crazy, but he needed to occupy himself, needed something to do, something other than worrying about tonight, and how things were going to go with Ian. Fuck - he was acting as if this was an actual first date.

Even Dave noticed it - as coked up as he was.

“The hell’s wrong with you, Mickey Mouse? You know, if the coke’s making you that jittery, it’s some kind of bottom shelf crap, right? Want me to get you some real stuff?”

“No - I’m - I’m not jittery and I don’t need any fucking coke,” Mickey bit back, pushing a rack of wetsuits, the noise of the hangers seeming to startle Dave for a second; fucking child. Dave continued to try to convince him to let him buy him some coke, but Mickey was at this point a master of the arts when it came to tuning that annoying, raspy voice out. One thing was for sure, though - Mickey was fucking jittery - nervous-jittery, not happy-jittery. He was nervous as shit.

—————

As the night fell dark, and Ian and Mickey met up - things weren’t so bad; in fact, things felt quite normal. They walked through the streets of Mexico, passing a cigarette in between each other. A few food stands were still placed along the sidewalk, some selling tacos, some giving away the last few leftover Sopillas so that they could close up for the night. A few windows were open in the apartment buildings, different kinds of music blasting, all of it mixing together into the common street noise of Mexico.

Ian was the one who did most of the talking - sometimes Mickey would intervene with a salty comment, or a shake of his head - but he liked to listen. Ian told him about what Lip and Fiona were up to, and he told him about Carl and Liam; he told him about what it had been like, working as an EMT. It all felt oddly… normal.

Although, when Mickey felt Ian’s little finger brush across his own, he pulled it back. There was just some kind of a wall in his mind - no; not yet. He couldn’t give into him like that. This was just food with a friend - and then, they would see if it could go somewhere. At least that’s what Mickey was telling himself. Thankfully, Ian didn’t seem too hurt by it.

“Here,” he suddenly came to a stop, one of his hands outstretched to his side, gesturing to the door of the restaurant they were next to. Mickey looked at it for a second, and then he raised his eyebrows and looked at Ian.

“For real? Man, I thought we were going to a Taco Bell or some shit.” This wasn’t a restaurant. This was a restaurant. It wasn’t that he wanted to appear ungrateful, but this had never been his scene - places where you had to book a table, napkins made out of fabric; to be fair this place probably wasn’t quite that nice, but to Mickey, it may as well have been.

“I didn’t even have to book a table, it’s not that bad,” Ian told him, as if he was able to read his mind. Mickey sighed to himself, and then he watched Ian tilt his head slightly to the side, as if asking him to give it a chance. Mickey nodded once, and then they walked inside.

Ian had been right - it wasn’t so nice that the napkins were made out of fabric, and it wasn’t so nice that they would be stopped and asked to change out of their jeans, though as they were showed the way to a table, Mickey still wasn’t quite comfortable. He understood that despite Ian growing up in Chicago, with essentially no money, this had been something that he had always liked - not just restaurants, but nice shoes, and nice cars, and clothing that you couldn’t wash yourself - Mickey was not like that, and he never had been. The reality was that if Mickey were to be a millionaire, he would most likely still eat fried chicken, and wear shoes that looked as if they had been made to walk in. This was not his scene - he appreciated what Ian was trying to do - but he just wasn’t comfortable.

“You okay?” Ian questioned, as the waiter placed a jug of water, and two menus in front of them.

“I’m fine, man,” Mickey nodded, doing his best to give him a comforting smile, though as it seemed, it wasn’t quite happening - he wasn’t the most talented actor. “Just…” Mickey tried once he realised that Ian wasn’t buying it. “This ain’t really my scene, you know?”

“Can you stop that?” Ian asked him softly. “You deserve a nice meal, I just want to give you a date you deserve.”

“I know - I…” Mickey sighed softly to himself, his eyes closed for a moment longer than usual before he opened them and looked at Ian. “I’m not saying I don’t deserve shit like this, I’m saying this ain’t what it’s about - I’m acting like an ungrateful cunt,” he realised, then. “Sorry.” Ian didn’t object, though silence rested in between them for a moment before he folded his menu closed, placing it down in front of him. Mickey looked up, wondering if he was going to break up with him now - before they had even gotten back together. Hell, maybe that would have been for the best.

“I’m sorry,” Ian said instead, and Mickey frowned in confusion. “I didn’t even ask you what you wanted to do - I just… I’m sorry. You don’t wanna eat here? What do you wanna do?”

There it was.

As Ian locked his own fingers together, and rested his chin upon his knuckles, staring into Mickey’s eyes - there it was. The feeling in the pit of Mickey’s stomach, that he hadn’t felt in such a long time. Those butterflies - or maybe they had never quite disappeared, simply been numbed by the worry, and confusion he had carried when it came to his relationship with Ian. But Ian stared into his eyes, and Mickey knew that he was serious - he wanted to do what Mickey wanted to do.

“Think I saw a taco truck down the street,” Mickey told him. “The one with the spicy guac.” For a second, Mickey wondered whether Ian would roll his eyes, or tell him that they could do that the next time. Instead, he looked around the restaurant, and then he smiled at Mickey, and he nodded. Then, as if they had actually eaten anything they had to pay for, they almost ran out of the place, Mickey first, with Ian close behind him. They hadn’t done anything wrong, but for a second, as they dashed down the sidewalk, until the music of the restaurant faded behind them, it felt like old times.

As they caught their breath, Ian laughed, and the sound caused Mickey to do the same.

“Why the hell are we running? We didn’t do anything,” Ian asked through a laugh, though it seemed he was asking himself just as much as he was asking Mickey. Mickey took a breath, grateful to have air back in his lungs, then he straightened up, shaking his head as Ian did the same. Before Mickey really knew it, Ian had him pressed up against the building behind him, his arms caging him in.

Three years ago, they wouldn’t have been staring at each other as they did now; Mickey’s back wouldn’t have had time to meet the facade before he would have kissed Ian, before they would have made out and Mickey would have forgotten anything and everything else. Now, though - now he didn’t forget anything, instead everything seemed magnified. Within a second, as he stared into Ian’s eyes, a lump grew in his throat, and he was forced to push Ian away, shaking his head.

It was so fucking stupid - and he realised that. He wanted to be with Ian - if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have agreed to go out with him, he wouldn’t have let Ian think that there was a chance for them, unless there was one. But that ball of anger, sadness and betrayal inside of Mickey’s chest, as much as he tried to fight it, to think it away - he couldn’t. It was there.

“I’m sorry,” Ian said from behind him, as Mickey lit a cigarette, hoping that it would grant him the time to think this over. Ian hadn’t even kissed him - he had planned to, that much was obvious - but getting close to Ian again… getting physically close, would mean that sooner or later, they would have to become close in a different way, once again, and the last time Mickey had allowed that to happen…

“It’s okay, man,” Mickey assured him. “Look, there it is - race ya.”

It was a vastly juvenile thing to do - race each other to the taco truck down the street, but it worked - they laughed, and any weirdness seemed to fade away, at least for a while. When they reached the truck, they ordered, and Ian paid. They both ended up taking a seat on the edge of the sidewalk, chewing in silence - not awkward silence, though, they were just hungry. Somewhere above them, a window was open, and music slipped out onto the street. People were walking about, past Ian and Mickey, someone even in between them, which caused Ian to move a little bit closer, and now, Mickey didn’t mind as much.

“Thanks for this, man,” Mickey said when they had finished their food.

“It’s like fifty peso,” Ian told him with a raise of his eyebrow. Mickey rolled his eyes - he didn’t mean the taco, and Ian knew that. “Sorry I picked that restaurant, I should have known better. That’s not you.”

“No, it’s not,” Mickey confirmed. “But you know… it’s not really a prison worthy crime, man.” They both went quiet at that, and although Mickey was the one who had actually been on the inside, he felt as if he had crossed somewhat of an invisible line. “Sorry for being such a fucking baby about it.”

“No, no,” Ian suddenly shook his head, his eyebrows growing closer. “No, Mick - if I do anything that you don’t want - even something like picking a restaurant you’re not comfortable with - just… tell me. ‘Cause after all the shit I did to you, I just…. I feel like I do everything wrong, and - “

“You don’t,” Mickey assured him - and it was true. “You just… man, you don’t gotta take me out, or spend a bunch of fucking money - just - you know, just listen, you know? Don’t be an asshole.” Ian turned his head to look at him, squinting slightly. Then they smiled at each other.

“Then we can get somewhere?”

“Then we might be able to get somewhere.”

—————

Despite himself, Mickey had been able to fight the urge to follow Ian to his place, and he made it back to his own apartment before the clock even struck one am - that had to be some kind of a record. And if he was being honest, he was feeling quite good. His stomach was full of delicious tacos, beer that came out of a bottle, and his cheeks ached from all of the smiles. Things were good.

“Who’s here?” Mickey called, noticing the unfamiliar pair of sandals by the front door. He didn’t bother to take his own shoes off, instead he entered, walking into he living room to see Spencer, Nathan and Dave spread out over the sofa, the smell of weed lingering in the air.

“Just us,” Nathan was the one to answer, his hand up in the air, giving Mickey a gave before dropping it back into his lap.

“He tryna get clean again?” Mickey asked Nathan with a nod towards Dave’s sleeping frame - Spencer was sleeping as well, but that wasn’t an unusual sight. Dave, though - with the mountains of coke he shoved up his nose on a daily basis, the only time he was actually asleep seemed to be the couple days a month when he suddenly decided that he should stop all of that; Mickey would support him if he thought that he had any intention of actually following through, but he never did.

“Yup,” Nathan sighed. “Turns out he’s coming this weekend, by the way, so you and Spencer might have to share a room, but you’re cool, right?” He told Mickey then, just as Mickey dropped the door of the fridge, starting to head back towards the couch. He frowned for a second, swallowing some of it down.

“What’s this weekend?”

“Nick and Nate’s beach house,” Spencer mumbled without opening his eyes. Mickey’s lips parted slightly in understanding as he slowly begun to remember the conversations a few weeks ago; Nate and his twin brother Nick had their parent’s beach house to themselves - it was about two hours from here, on another beach - but apparently, it was really nice, so they had invited the entire group to stay. “Maybe you wanna spend time with Ian instead,” Spencer mumbled then, still very much half asleep. It could have sounded salty, but Mickey knew that coming from Spencer, it was a simple question - Mickey might want to spend time with Ian instead.

“Yeah, yeah - you don’t have to come,” Nathan confirmed. “I mean, you’re invited, man - we love you - but no pressure.” Mickey nodded.

A few years ago, it would have been an easy choice - go hours away with people he liked, but hadn’t known for that long, to play boardgames, or sit by the ocean - or spend time with Ian. Ian. That would have been the obvious choice.

Now, however, he remembered the promise he had made to himself - to value himself more than he valued Ian, and to take care of himself and all of that shit.

“Don’t be stupid, man - ‘course I’m coming.”

Ian couldn’t be Mickey’s entire world - he had been before, and it hadn’t ended very well - so he needed this, needed to spend time with his friends. Of course he would go.

—————

Mickey didn’t see Ian for another few days - and since neither of them had cellphones down here, he didn’t speak to him either. His days were spend working at the surf shop - with Ian worked at as well, of course, but somehow their shifts never overlapped - and then he would come home, drink beer and watch Coeurs Et Sang with Spencer.

When Friday came around, and they did see each other again, things felt, in a way - tense. It wasn’t a tension built up from anger, or even nervousness - it was just kind of strange. Awkward. As if neither of them were sure of what to do around the other person.

“So Dave’s tryna get clean, huh?” Ian was the one to break the silence, as they had their backs turned to one another, stacking different products.

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “Yeah - but it never lasts,” he told him, before chuckling somewhat at the memory that entered his mind. “I remember last time, Spencer and I found him on the beach, coked up like a five year old on ten pounds of sugar, tryna surf two boards at once - caught one of them in his fucking balls, bled like hell.”

By now they had turned towards each other, Ian laughing at the story - Mickey did, too, but there was something else in his throat - a lump of awkwardness, nervousness. It didn’t seem to go away.

“Probably for the best he’s drugged out,” Ian shrugged. “Wouldn’t have hired me otherwise - never been on a board in my entire life.”

“Really?” Mickey was surprised - which was stupid, he supposed - he hadn’t been on a board in his entire life until he came down here, either, though it didn’t take a very long time for him to learn - with Spencer and Nate’s help, of course. “Maybe I’ll teach you sometime,” he found himself suggesting, then. Ian nodded once, slowly, as he stared at Mickey with those eyes that caused him to question just about everything he had told himself about slowing this - whatever this was - down.

“This weekend?” Ian asked him, though Mickey had to shake his head.

“Nah, I’m going away with a couple friends - apparently they have a family beach house or some shit a couple hours away, supposed to be really nice,” Mickey informed him, before turning around and lifting a box up from behind him, carrying it over to another shelf before opening it, starting to unpack the different products.

“Sounds cool,” he heard Ian mutter from behind him. “Is Spencer gonna be there?” At that question, all Mickey could do was to turn around, one of his eyebrows raising, slightly warning, and somewhat teasing Ian’s creeping jealousy.

“Sorry,” Ian raised his hands into the air, as if Mickey had had a gun in his own. “Sorry,” Ian repeated. “None of my business.” Mickey shrugged, a small smile on his face as he pushed past him.

“Not yet,” he said, and although he wasn’t looking at Ian, he knew that he was smiling. Mickey wasn’t going to sleep with Spencer - they hadn’t done that since Mickey had agreed to go out with Ian, and he didn’t think that Ian would think so little of him anyway - but it didn’t hurt to remind him that Ian didn’t have Mickey back just quite yet.

—————

They all made it to the beach house late at night - and the term beach house certainly wasn’t an exaggeration, it wasn’t just near the beach - it was a huge, modern house on stilts, placed right in the sand. There wasn’t a lot to see in the dark, as it was lit up by merely a few lightbulbs around the property, but when Nathan had parked the car, and they all made it inside, Mickey had to raise his eyebrows. It was like the place had been staged for a showing - everything was either white, black or grey, and the hardwood flooring was polished to perfection. He was almost scared to walk inside - just like the restaurant, this wasn’t really his scene, though this wasn’t among strangers, so it was a little bit easier to get used to. Especially as he watched Spencer, Nick, Nathan and Dave all head over the floor with their shoes on, throwing their jackets over the back of the black leather sofa - yeah, Mickey could get used to this.

Nick and Spencer immediately headed over towards the comically large television, starting to sort through the channels with the touch-screen remote. Nathan disappeared somewhere else, and Dave pulled the door of the fridge open, getting out two entire six packs of beer.

“We hit the jackpot my dudes! By the way, is anyone else hungry? I could really go for some meat-lovers, or extra cheese - or meat-lovers with extra cheese, but if anyone else wants that, you’re gonna have to get two, because I am not sharing.” If there had been any doubt, Mickey knew for sure that he was back on the coke now. That being said, meat-lovers pizza with extra cheese sounded really fucking good.

“We can’t order pizza,” Spencer reminded him. “They’re not gonna deliver out here, sure as fuck not at one am.” At that, Dave gasped, as if he had just come up with a new world theory.

“We can make the pizza! Yeah!” He shouted, much like a little kid - or as a fifty year old on drugs. Or forty. Hell - it was possible he was in his thirties, Mickey didn’t fucking know. At the home made pizza suggestion, though, Mickey and the others simply laughed, shaking their head as Nick brought them all beers where they were sat in the sofas. “But why - why not? We have flour, we have oil - cheese,” Dave listed, as he - very loudly - opened and closed the different crisp-white cabinets.

“Man, we came here to chill,” Mickey told him. “I’m not cooking shit,” he added, then. Nick hummed in agreement - Nathan and Spencer, though, turned to them, and they shrugged seemingly innocently. Nick and Mickey looked at each other, knowing all too well that they had already lost the battle. They were going to be making pizzas, whether they wanted to or not.

So that’s how they spent that night - in the well-lit kitchen of an otherwise black house, smoking way too much weed, and throwing flour all over the place, just barely enough making it into the bowl for them to be able to make two very small pizzas. They covered them with anchovies, tomatoes, and any and all kinds of meat they found hiding in the fridge, and the beef jerky in the cupboard. In the end, the pizzas ended up burnt and disgusting, and Dave was the only one who stomached more than a single slice, but as Mickey sat there, on the sofa, crumbs of burnt “pizza” on the coffee table, weed hanging in the air, and some stupid, offensive cartoon playing on the television - he realised something - these guys were his family now.

For a long time, he had simply considered them to be the people he happened to hang around when he got down to Mexico, and sooner or later, they wouldn’t see each other anymore for one reason or another, and he wouldn’t think about them. But if they ever did drift apart - he knew now, that he would. Because he wanted this. They were a part of his life. Like beer, weed and Ian - his friends. Dave was a drug addict, probably heading into his fifties, Spencer and Mickey had an arguably complicated relationship from the outside looking in, Nathan could be almost as annoying as Dave, but sadly had no substance addiction to blame, and Nick cared a lot more about superheroes than he did about real life people - but Mickey loved them all. In some strange, fucked up way, these people were his best friends.

He wasn’t quite sure if he had ever had that before.

—————

So Mickey had to share a room with Spencer. Which wasn’t weird. At least not at first, and a month ago, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought at all, and as the daylight begun to appear outside, giving the indication that the guys had been awake for way too long, there still wasn’t a second thought. All of them headed upstairs, and Mickey and Spencer got rid of their pants, before climbing into bed - like friends. Close friends; which wasn’t a lie - they were.

It was a little bit later, though, when Spencer’s soft snores begun slipping out through his nose, that Mickey started to think. His head was propped up onto a few of the pillows behind him, and he looked towards Spencer, where he laid, his back turned to Mickey. His eyes drifted over his back, those few freckles of his shoulder that Mickey had countless times wrapped his teeth around to keep from being too loud. The strands of tousled light brown hair that he had so many times wrapped his fingers around.

How Spencer had never once hurt him. How Spencer would never have taken him to a fancy restaurant. It was unfair - all of these thoughts were unfair, and Mickey knew this. Mickey loved Ian - despite the strange ‘kind of together and kind of not’ place they were in right now - he loved him. But Spencer was such a good guy, and he was so fucking hot, and he was here - right next to Mickey, in this bed. Half dressed. And Mickey and Ian weren’t technically back together. And Ian had slept with other people while they actually were together. So. Maybe…

“Why are you staring at me?” The slurred, tired words caught Mickey slightly off guard as he hadn’t noticed that the snores had quieted down.

“Shut the fuck up - you didn’t even look at me,” Mickey grunted, to which Spencer let out an amused sigh.

“Think I have to look at you to know what you’re thinking? You’re my best friend.” For a second, the room was quiet, but then Spencer rolled over onto his other side, their eyes meeting through the dark of the bedroom. Mickey swallowed. “What’s wrong?”

Usually, when Spencer got serious like this - because he happened to be the kind of person who liked those kind of conversations, and Mickey happened to… not be that kind of person. At least not as often. Anyway, when he got like this, Mickey usually waved him off, but for some reason, this night, all he could do was shrug his shoulders. He parted his lips somewhat, a few words on his tongue, though they then seemed to disappear, and he closed his mouth once again.

Then, before he had enough time to question his own actions, or to stop himself, he pushed himself closer to Spencer, and he kissed him. Spencer’s hands fell onto his thighs as he straddled his hips, and he kissed him back; his fingertips dug into the flesh of Mickey’s legs, and Mickey wrapped his fingers around strands of brown hair as the kiss deepened, their tongues dancing against each other’s.

Mickey broke the kiss, moving his lips down to Spencer’s collarbone, licking across the skin as he fought off the thoughts that entered his mind, questioning what he was doing, and whether it was the right thing.

“Mickey,” Spencer tried. Mickey thought that it was a moan, so he continued to suck his neck for another moment before letting go, and going back to his lips. This time, however, there wasn’t the same response as before, and when he brought his hand down in between their bodies, Spencer’s was there to wrap around his wrist, stopping him. “Mick - stop,” Spencer shook his head.

The kiss broke, and Mickey frowned down at him.

“Ian?” Spencer asked him. Mickey rolled his eyes; he stayed on top of Spencer, but his arms fell to his sides, knuckles grazing the covers beneath their bodies.

“Fuck Ian, man,” he sighed. He felt a little bit bad saying it, but Spencer was fucking beautiful, and he was here, and Ian had done the same thing to him before, only worse, so who would it really hurt? "He cheated on me anyway, come here - “

“Recently?” Spencer questioned, and Mickey shook his head.

“So he’s trying to be a better guy, and you wanna fuck me to get even for something he’s trying to get you guys past? Wow,” Spencer nodded, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Wow. That’s - that’s fucking healthy - get off me.”

“Are you mad at me?” Mickey had meant for the question to carry more of an annoyed tone, but as the sound of his voice echoed inside of his own head, he found them to sound a lot more sad and worried. Like a little child.

“No, Mick, no,” Spencer shook his head as they separated, once again taking their own sides of the bed. “Just - you gotta figure out what the hell you want, because he seems to know - and I love you, but I’m not gonna be a fucking chess piece, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Mickey managed. “Love you, too - shoulda never made you feel like that, man - that’s fucked up.”

The three words weren’t romantic. They were platonic, and obvious, but they felt good to hear, and they felt good to say.

“You wanna see if we can find a really bad horror movie to make fun of?” Spencer asked Mickey, then. “One with white college girls in a cabin saying ‘Is anybody there?’ every five minutes?” He did a horrible impression of the recurring line, and Mickey laughed until he coughed and nearly lost his breath. Spencer laughed at the way Mickey laughed, and finally he had to knock him on the back to get some air back into his lungs.

They laughed some more, and then they found a horror movie truly not worth watching.

—————

“Did we sleep through the fucking fire alarm? Why does the entire house smell like smoke?” Spencer was the one to complain as they made their way down to the first floor late in the afternoon. He was right - not only did it smell like smoke, but Mickey had to cough a few times as some of it lingered in the air, making its way down into his lungs.

“There was no fire,” Nick assured them, as he stood on one of the barstools, waving a kitchen towel around, trying to clear some of the dark smoke that continued to linger. “Dave just put the last garlic baguettes into the oven and forgot about ‘em - piece of shit,” he sighed, climbing back down onto the floor.

“There’s none left?” Spencer scrunched his nose, staring down at the two piece of coal.

“Nope - who’s going to the store? Not it!” Dave and Nathan were the first ones to say those two words, but the other three didn’t bother. Instead they looked at each other, and sighed - then they got dressed and left for the grocery store.

—————

The rest of that weekend was a lot of fun - despite the fact that they didn’t end up doing a whole lot. They would surf, of course - they were about five steps from the waves, after all - and once or twice, they went swimming as well. They spent some time just sitting on the beach, smoking weed as they laughed, telling crazy stories about their past. Dave had the best ones - he told them about the time that somebody had chased him with a knife down in Rio, and he had also become friends with a pack of lions, and helped them hunt down a herd of gazelles - according to himself, at least, though none of the guys really cared all that much about what the truth was - Dave knew how to entertain people, that was for sure.

Nick and Nathan told the story about how they had once fallen in love with the same girl, and they had fought with each other for months, arguing bout how they should ask her out, and who should be the first, and who deserved her the most - eventually, she had apparently turned out to be a lesbian, which was probably the best possible ending to that story that Mickey could have imagined.

They all also spent a fair amount of time inside the house, watching television and swallowing down way too much beer than what could possibly be healthy - and they all kept Dave away from the kitchen, of course.

When the time came to go back on Monday morning, Mickey felt oddly at peace - he couldn’t remember the last time that he had been laughing as much as he did; in fact, Dave’s continuous outrageous stories caused his cheeks to ache just a little bit. The way he felt, being amongst the group of these losers, was one of the best feelings that he had experienced in a long time.

—————

“Hey…” Mickey greeted Ian somewhat carefully, when he entered the surf shop on Tuesday morning. A part of him felt a little bit guilty for having kissed Spencer this weekend, but deep down, he knew that continuing to mull over that wouldn’t get him anywhere really great, so he did his best to push it out of his mind.

“You’re back - good weekend?” Ian asked him, a smile on his face. He had a clipboard in his hand, counting the different products. The sound of the pencil scratching against the paper rang in between them for a second or two before Mickey answered him.

“Yeah - yeah, good weekend - hey, you still wanna learn how to surf?” He crossed his arms over his chest, taking a few steps closer; Ian continued to stare down at the paper as he finished writing something. Then he put it down on one of the shelves, and turned to Mickey, shrugging.

“Yeah, we can do that - looks flat, though.” At that, Mickey couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the somewhat strained energy in between them.

“You ain’t ever been on a board before, small waves ain’t a bad thing,” he reminded him. Ian laughed along with him for a minute, and then they quieted down. Mickey keeps his arms folded across his chest, as if he was protecting himself, but as he looked up at Ian, he couldn’t stop the words from escaping his mouth. “Missed you, man.”

It was true. And now just this weekend, but he had missed Ian for years. That’s what it felt like. And maybe it sounded ridiculous, but even when they had been together, before Mickey had gotten thrown in jail, he had missed him. Things had been fucked up for a while - a long while - what, with Ian’s illness, and Chicago in general, and all of the chaos that always went on around their neighbourhood - it had been a long time since they had been able to just… be.

“You know I missed you, too,” Ian nodded, as if he could tell exactly what Mickey meant. “Uh, you can say no, but what do you think about grabbing a drink later tonight? There’s a bar a couple blocks over, right?” Mickey nodded at that. “You ever been?”

“Bitch, who the fuck you think you’re talking to?” Mickey asked then, nearly laughing through the words. “‘Course I’ve been - it’s a cool place, the bartenders wear vests, but the drunks hanging across the bar make up for it.” Ian laughed, nodding. He seemed as if he parted his lips, about to say something else, but just then and there, Dave walked into the shop, and they went back to work.

It was a good day, though. Despite the flat water, the beach was quite crowded, and the shop made a lot of money; it seemed a lot of it may have been because of Ian - there were a lot of young girls whispering amongst themselves, looking at him. Sometimes they would buy something, walk out, and be gone for no more than twenty minutes before they came back. Mickey struggled not to laugh at it - it crossed his mind to walk over and wrap his arm around Ian’s waist, just to make their jaws drop, but they weren’t quite there yet. Mickey wasn’t quite there yet.

So instead, each time a girls’ voice would crack, or they would whisper amongst themselves, Ian would look over at Mickey, and Mickey would look over at Ian, inwardly they would laugh together. Once, Ian winked - which he wasn’t good at - and Mickey rolled his eyes.

—————

The bar wasn’t quite as bad as Mickey remembered it to be. Sure, they had more than a few different kinds of beer, and he found the bartender’s moves to be slightly over the top, but it was mellowed out by the creaky floorboards, and the loud voices of the middle aged men, hanging around, wishing to get so drunk they passed out.

Another reason as to why Mickey didn’t mind the bar, was Ian.

Throughout the entire night, things felt a lot more normal than they had in a long time. They had a barstool each, and they were turned towards each other, their knees brushing every few moments. By their third beer and second basket for fries, their faces were already decorated with large smiles, and by the fifth beer, they were laughing so hard, they were barely able to sit up straight - thankfully they were in Mexico, and most people around here were loud - mostly because they were on vacation, and letting themselves get truly drunk for once - so Ian and Mickey weren’t given as many dirty looks as they would have been granted back in Chicago.

They stopped drinking as the clock ticked past midnight, and towards one and two am, and the crowd begun thinning out, but Ian and Mickey ordered another basket of fries, as they talked. They slowly begun to sober up a little bit - emphasis on a little bit - and their voices lowered to more of a normal volume as they talked about things. Ian shared stories of his siblings, and of his time as an EMT; Mickey talked about the time that Nathan had entered a surfing competition, but he hadn’t even made it through the first heat before he fell off of his board and somehow twisted his ankle - it didn’t sound like a funny story, but it really was; mostly because Nathan of all people was able to have a sense of humour about it.

The clock ticked, and ticked, and when the bartender started to wipe off the bar, and put the chairs up onto the tables, Ian and Mickey were still sitting there, smiling like two idiots.

“You wanna head out?” Mickey asked him; by now, they were a lot closer than they had been a few hours ago. Ian had his hand on Mickey’s hip, and Mickey kept his palm on Ian’s knee, their faces close. Very close; Mickey could almost imagine what it would be like to kiss him. This really wasn’t like them - this, what they had been doing the past few weeks, this whole no-kissing thing. They hadn’t spoken about it, though it was as if it was some kind of unspoken understanding that it was up to Mickey. It was Mickey’s decision when to kiss, when to hug - when to fuck - and Mickey wanted to - who the hell wouldn’t? And come tomorrow morning, perhaps he would remember the reason as to why he had chosen not to kiss him right now, but as they sat in that mostly-empty bar, muffled music coming from the kitchen, Ian holding onto him - Mickey couldn’t remember.

So he kissed him.

It was as if he could feel both of them relax, immediately. Ian’s lips held onto Mickey’s bottom lip, his tongue warm as they deepened it. Mickey moved his free hand to the back of Ian’s neck, pressing himself closer to him. Fuck, he had missed this; there was really nothing like this in the world. Mickey had been with a lot of guys, some of them he had even liked, but they weren’t Ian. Nobody would ever be Ian. He realised that, now more than ever before.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Ian was the one to confess when they parted again, their foreheads touching for another few moments before Mickey straightened up, nodding.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, man - your place.”

—————

What woke Mickey up the next morning, was the sound of laughter - a group of loud teenagers, saying something in Spanish, the sound quickly appearing, waking Mickey, and then quickly disappearing once again. Mickey groaned, annoyed, before a similar sound reached his ears again - just as quickly there, and then gone.

“The fuck?” He groaned to himself, and when he opened his eyes, he realised why the noise was so frequent, and fast - they were people just walking past the window by the bed. A bed he had never seen before; he pushed himself up to sit, and he looked around the room - stone walls, the paint chipped, an old dresser with a tiny, square, mid-90s television - and a square window, open to let in the fresh air. Too many apartments around here had windows that opened right into the street - he had wanted to avoid just that when he had moved down here, which was why he had agreed to live with Spencer as a roommate - that was how much it annoyed him to constantly have people laughing into his ear - he had moved in with a stranger. Granted, it had all worked out well, but his point still stood.

“Ian?” With each second that passed, the more fleeting images of last night cleared up inside of his hazy head - Ian; he had gone with him to that bar, and they had laughed, and they drunk a whole lot more beer than any one person should in those few hours, and they had also… fuck. No.

“Out here!”

The floorboards creaked as Mickey made his way out of the bedroom, into the rest of the apartment - it wasn’t much; a single room with a kitchen and a television, not too different from his own place, save for the extra bedroom since he lived with a roommate.

“Did we uh…?” Mickey questioned, rubbing his eyes free of the leftover sleep. Maybe it was a stupid question to ask - he was in his shirt and boxers, and so was Ian, though the blankets laying across the couch seemed messed up, and there was a pillow that seemed to be taken from the bedroom, so maybe they hadn’t fucked.

“No,” Ian assured him, shaking his head as he muted the television, looking up at Mickey. “No, Mick, you were too drunk - figured it wasn’t a good idea - I slept out here.” Mickey nodded at that, folding his arms across his chest, in lack of anything else to do, because once again, there was that tension in between them, that air of awkwardness. In a way, they were starting over with each other, from the beginning, so maybe they were both terrified of doing or saying something wrong that would end up pushing the other one into the decision to pack his bags. “There’s coffee,” Ian informed him with a nod towards the run-down kitchenette in the corner.

Ian unmuted the television again and leaned back into the hug of the couch as Mickey moved across the floor, finding a cup and pouring some of the steaming black liquid into it, before he walked back over, sitting down on the couch. As he took his first sip of the coffee, they happened to look at each other at the same time - they didn’t say anything - but as their eyes met, that awkwardness, that tension disappeared, as if by the wave of a wand.

Everything was okay. They were okay.

—————

The rest of that week, Ian and Mickey didn’t see each other much outside of their shifts at the surf shop, but come Saturday, the waves had once again awakened from their nap, and the beach was crowded, the sun was shining - all of that shit that you see in adds for holidays in Mexico. Ian - because he, well because, he was Ian - didn’t mind looking like a complete idiot in front of a crowd of strangers, though, so when Mickey suggested that they get to that surf lesson they had talked about before Mickey went away with his friends, Ian didn’t objects.

Around noon, they walked from the surf shop, down to the water - they were able to find a place a little bit further away form the largest crowd, so they didn’t have to worry too much about children running, or footballs hitting them in their backs.

Mickey considered keeping them closer to the shore, so that Ian’s feet would reach the bottom when he inevitably fell off the board the first few times, but he came to the conclusion that a grown man was too tall and too heavy - that only worked with kids - so instead they paddled out, a simple enough task, though Mickey laughed as Ian drifted so far behind him.

“Bitch, you’re tall as shit, how the fuck are you behind me?” Mickey yelled, the water sloshing around his board.

“Shut up, I’ve never done this before!” Ian reminded him, and Mickey shook his head in amusement, before deciding that he was far out enough - it was deep, and the water had small, decent waves, large enough to learn on, but not so large that it could knock anybody off their board, at least not easily. He got up onto his board, and he wiped some of the water off of his face, slicking his hair back as he waited for Ian to catch up to him. “I’m exhausted,” Ian complained, once he had finally managed to straddle his board, and they both bobbed up and down with the movement of the water.

“Yeah?” Mickey asked. “You wanna go back in?” He teased him then, and Ian rolled his eyes.

“Okay, how do you start?”

It took Mickey a second or two to answer, because despite the fact that he was a decent - by no means great - but decent surfer by now, he had never actually taught the skill to anybody else before now.

“Try to get up on your knees,” Mickey told him, and Ian frowned.

“Here? There’s no movement, I’m gonna sink.”

“There’s movement enough, asshole, just try.”

Ian did so. He tried, and he fell, and he tried, and he fell, and he tried, and he fell. By the fifth or sixth time his head disappeared under the surface of the water, and he came back up, coughing, an annoyed look on his face, Mickey couldn’t hold it anymore - he had to laugh. His stomach ached, together with his cheeks, and soon enough he was nearly laying on his stomach, unable to calm himself down.

“It’s fucking difficult,” Ian told him, though there was a trace of amusement in his tone as well.

“Oh, no - I know it’s fucking difficult - okay… uh… try to lay down again, and paddle out to that wave,” Mickey told him, nodding to a small wave that was heading towards them. “See if you can take it laying down.” At that, Ian raised an eyebrow at him, and Mickey splashed him.

Mickey stayed in his place as Ian moved towards the wave; at first, it seemed that he would be able to handle it, but pretty soon, he disappeared beneath the surface, and then he came back up - next to the board.

As they stayed in the water, Ian eventually got somewhat better - not by much, mind you. But it seemed almost as if neither of them minded all too much; they were acting like kids. Not like the kids they had been - running around with cigarettes and guns at nine years old - but they were acting like actual kids. Laughing until they were in pain, splashing water at each other, and shoving their heads beneath the surface - they were having fun. Mickey couldn’t remember the last time they had allowed themselves to act quite this way. Be this careless.

With each wave, Mickey could feel his doubts and the pain somehow being… washed away. Almost as if their past together didn’t matter - at least not as much as their present.

—————

“Think I’m gonna be scared of the ocean for the rest of my fucking life,” Ian stated, to which Mickey chuckled, swallowing down another mouthful of beer. They were sitting on the porch of the surf shop, letting their eyes pass across the various, few people that were still milling around in the sand, as the sun begun to get ready to wake the other side of the world, disappearing in the distance, the sky a rich shade of orange.

“You weren’t that horrible,” Mickey lied.

“You’re a piece of shit liar,” Ian pointed out, and Mickey snorted in amusement, a few chuckles leaving them both before they settled into a comfortable silence once again, a few more swallows of beer leaving the cans next to them, disappearing down their throats before Mickey, a few minutes later, opened his mouth once again.

“This all you imagined? On the road? You, me - Mexico?”

“Yeah,” Ian easily said, to Mickey’s surprise. When he turned his head, he realised that Ian was already looking at him, and their eyes met. “Maybe it sounds fucking lame, but - you know, you’re here - that’s all I need.” Mickey scoffed, not sure what else to do, and then he bumped their shoulders together, once again staring out over the water, and the few surfers still out there, sliding across the waves.

“Hey, man,” Mickey caught his attention then, turning his head to look at him again, their eyes meeting for merely a short second before Mickey kissed him. Ian opened his mouth, responding to it, melting into the kiss, his arm wrapping around Mickey’s waist. This time, it was different; in that bar, they had been drunk, and tired, and sloppy - this was, indeed, different. It wasn’t a chaste kiss, but it was simple, good - there didn’t seem to be any rush, or any worry that they were doing the wrong thing, or that they should be waiting - that Mickey should be waiting, should make Ian work for it.

The truth was that Mickey had long since forgiven him - he had never forgotten all of the shitty stuff that he had done to him, and that he had done to Ian - but he was tired of holding it against him, of making him wait, or making himself wait. He wanted this. He wanted Ian.

“I missed you,” Ian breathed against his lips, and Mickey struggled not to grin, as their arms tightened around each other’s bodies, his fingers slipping through the strands of red hair at the back of Ian’s head.

“Shut the fuck up - kiss me,” Mickey told him, and they smiled into the next kiss, their noses nudging. It went on for probably a lot longer than any public make out session ever could, but by now, the sun was gone, and with it, the beach had emptied, so it wasn’t quite that public anymore.

“My place?” Ian asked Mickey, out of breath when they finally parted. At first, Mickey was about to nod, but then he realised that he had plans - he and Spencer had decided to re-watch all - or most - of the episodes of that ridiculous french soap opera together tonight. A few years ago, Mickey would have blown it off, just like that - hell, they didn’t even have tickets, they could watch television any night they wanted. But the thought of blowing off his best friend to spend time with Ian… it just didn’t make him feel great. And if he was being honest, he kind of liked to watch shitty television with Spencer, and one of the things that he had promised himself when Ian came down here, that had been to never put Ian before himself, or before his friends. “Hey - it’s okay, where’d your mind go?” Ian asked, a hint of a chuckle to the words. Mickey shook his head, shrugging before he sighed.

“I got plans, man - sorry. Tomorrow, though.”

It surely wasn’t the answer Ian had been expecting, and Mickey knew that. But he needed to learn how to do this, needed to practice saying no.

“Alright,” Ian nodded, before dropping one more kiss to Mickey’s lips; Mickey did the same, and then Ian placed one last peck to Mickey’s nose, before they both couldn’t keep the laughter contained. Finally Mickey stood up and gave Ian’s chest a push before he walked away.

“Fuck you, man.”

“Love you, too,” Ian called after him, getting nothing but a middle finger in response.

—————

As soon as Mickey entered the apartment, he heard the voices from the television - he was late, Spencer had started watching without him. Spencer wasn’t one to get mad at such things, and Mickey knew this, but it still made him feel shitty.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted as he walked into the living room, heading right for the kitchen. When he came back out a few seconds later, beer in hand, the credits were rolling, though he recognised it as the pilot episode, so he couldn’t have been all too late. “Sorry I’m late, man,” he apologised, regardless, as Spencer reached for the remote to pause the next episode until they were ready.

“No problem - how’d he do?” Spencer asked, smiling a little bit around the mouth of the bottle as he took another sip of his beer. He wasn’t making fun of Ian personally, and Mickey knew this, it was just so easy to make fun of anybody who was learning how to surf, because they always looked like children out in the ocean, incredibly uncoordinated. Spencer had been there, too - that’s why it was all in good fun.

“He didn’t drown,” Mickey shrugged, and Spencer laughed. “What’d I miss?”

Spencer filled Mickey in on the different twists and turns of the storylines, and what he had missed, and then they moved on to the second episode, and then the third, and the fourth - and then the eighth. By the twelfth, Mickey and Spencer were both asleep, several empty beer bottles littered across the coffee table, faint snores escaping them both.

—————

The next day, the surf shop was once again filled with a large amount of people, making for an extremely stressful day - Ian, Spencer, Dave and Mickey barely had time to speak a single word to each other. Come the night, though, Mickey was at Ian’s apartment, just like they had decided the day before. There wasn’t any restaurants around his particular neighbourhood that delivered, though, so as Ian went out to get their order, Mickey was alone at his place, having comfortably taken his place on the sofa, lost in an old episode of Sherlock. In fact, as he sat there, he wasn’t thinking a whole lot - lately, he had been worrying; about his relationship with Ian, about his friendship with Spencer and the other guys, about his life in general - but somehow, subconsciously, it was as if his mind went blank. There, on that couch - waiting for Ian to come back - it was such an ordinary night. Almost as if he was home.

“They were out of the extra hot salsa, so I just got hot,” Ian called as soon as he entered. Mickey grunted in response, too lost in the television show to give an actual answer. He paused it, though, when Ian sat down on the couch, and they started rooting through the bags of food, placing everything out onto the table. Then, randomly, Mickey got a kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t kiss me like that, man - I’m not a fucking girl,” Mickey complained - though he carried the hint of a smile on his face, and somehow it was an unspoken joke in between them when he said something that like - it was as if he was making fun of what he would have said all those years ago.

“You gotta cut my tongue out?” Ian teased back, placing the empty paper bag back onto the floor when they had all the food on the table. “You wouldn’t do that, you like it too much,” he answered his own question, and Mickey rolled his eyes. “John or Sherlock?” Ian asked him, then, mouth full of tacos. They hadn’t actually pressed play yet - Mickey was about to, but at the sound of that question, his eyebrows drew together in confusion as he turned to look at Ian.

“Are you fucking insane?” Mickey asked him. “What the fuck kinda question is that - Sherlock’s the fucking king, man.” As a matter of fact, he might almost be hotter than Ian, though Mickey probably shouldn’t say that out loud if he wanted to get laid tonight - and he really needed to. It had been forever. Ian squinted somewhat - a clear sign he disagreed.

“Would you actually fuck Benedict Cumberbatch, though?”

“Hey - the dude’s got the word Cum in his name, if you have cum in your name, you can have cum in me.” Mickey wasn’t really sure what he was saying until the words were out of his mouth, but there they were, and he still stood by it; as he watched the process of accepting those words clear on Ian’s face, he took a sip of his flat beer, shrugging. “What - you saying you’d fuck Watson before Sherlock? Bullshit.”

“He’s hotter.”

“No, he’s fucking not!”

That lead to a half an hour long discussion - or fight - about whether Benedict Cumberbatch or Martin Freeman was hotter - which then lead to the other portrayals of Sherlock and Watson, and in the end they were essentially screaming at each other - though, of course, seeing as they were Ian and Mickey, the argument just kind of fizzled out, and the night wasn’t disturbed in any way.

“You’re wrong,” Mickey grunted.

“You’re wrong, too,” Ian told him, a slight chuckle to the last word, as Mickey finally pressed play. The tacos were long gone, but they still had some beer left, and they spent the next few hours, just sitting next to each other, watching Sherlock, dropping salty comments every now and then, trying to get the other man to agree - it never worked, of course, they were stuck in their opinions. Eventually, they moved on to watching an episode or two of Castle, and when the credits rolled, Mickey had to ask.

“Ryan or Esposito?”

“Oh - Esposito, for sure, you crazy?”

“Yeah, that’s the right answer,” Mickey nodded, and then he turned, placing his hands on the back of Ian’s neck, bringing him in for a sloppy, half-assed, but passionate kiss. Ian laughed into it, and as the next episode started up, he already had his hands on Mickey’s waist, as Mickey straddled his lap, their lips easily fitting together, as if they were made for it. Ian deliberately rolled his hips, lifting himself slightly from the couch, creating friction in between them, as he moved one of his hands to Mickey’s cheek, breaking the kiss so that he could place his lips against that spot on Mickey’s neck - the one that caused that very particular hitch in his breath.

“Ian.” The word was barely audible, but Ian picked it up, his hands moving down, inside of Mickey’s shorts to grope his ass. Mickey rolled his hips, the sound of the television fading into the background they gave into each other, his teeth digging into his own bottom lip when Ian continued to mouth at his neck, a heavy mark surely forming beneath his skin. He sighed, making a noise close to that of a hiccup when Ian’s teeth scratched across the wet patch of skin. “Bed,” Mickey sighed, forcing himself to stand up.

Ian was behind him, and they shed their clothes themselves on the way, in too much hurry for a lot of foreplay - it had been so fucking long. Mickey dropped his boxers by the foot of the bed before he climbed up onto it, laying on his back; Ian shut the blinds to make sure they wouldn’t have a crowd, and then he dropped his as well, before joining Mickey on the bed.

“Fucking kiss me,” Mickey told him, his fingers tangled in the red hair, struggling not to sigh at the mere touch of Ian’s hand on his hipbone - nothing would ever be like this - nobody else would ever be like this. A low mewl of complaint slipped past Mickey’s lips when Ian broke the kiss, but then he kissed Mickey’s chin, and he closed his eyes, sighing through a moan; Ian moved down further, his lips pressed to his neck, and his collarbone. His chest, stomach and hip. Mickey once again took a hold of his own bottom lip, spreading his legs a little bit - Ian was teasing him, he hadn’t even touched his dick yet, yet Mickey struggled to keep his sounds at bay. Usually he was a pro at that, since growing up on the south side, but he knew now, that he didn’t need to, and it had been so long - such a long fucking time. How had he lived without this?

“Fuck,” Mickey cried when Ian without further warning wrapped his mouth around the head of his dick. Mickey brought his hands up to his head, his fists clutching the pillows on either side of his head. Ian sucked him off just as good as he always did, swallowing his cock all the way down, sometimes twisting his head on the way up, and he did something with his tongue that Mickey didn’t quite know what it was, but it caused his eyes to roll to the back of his head. As he continued bobbing his head up and down, Mickey felt one of his hands move up his body. It seemed like something only a straight, middle aged couple would do, but Mickey took it, braiding their fingers together; it felt so fucking good. Not just the way Ian was fully deep throating his cock - but this. Them. He loved Ian so fucking much.

“I love you,” Ian said when he had his mouth free for a second; his voice was hoarse, and if possible, it made Mickey even harder. He hadn’t known that he had said those words out loud for Ian to hear, but the sound of his response made him so fucking glad that he had. “I love you,” Ian told him again before he went back to sucking his cock, his fingers squeezing Mickey’s.

“Stop,” Mickey had to say, though, before he got way too into it once again. “Gonna come, man, stop. You gotta fuck me.” Ian hummed, moving his head up and down Mickey’s cock a couple more times before finally letting go, with a kiss pressed to the top of his thigh. Their hands slipped apart, and Mickey sat up, wrapping an arm around Ian’s neck, pressing a deep and needy kiss to his lips before he turned around, laying his head down on the pillow, keeping his ass in the air.

Sometimes, when he was fucking other people - or, rather, when he was being fucked by somebody who he didn’t know, he worried about what he looked like. He took a lot of fucking pride in being a bottom - but he wanted to be in power, he didn’t want to seem a like a bitch. With Ian, it didn’t matter - Ian didn’t see him as a bitch - and tonight, he just wanted to be fucked, and he didn’t give a fuck what he looked like doing it.

“Please,” he even sighed, as he felt Ian’s hands on his ass, kneading the flesh. “Please,” he begged again. He heard a faint chuckle from Ian, and then he felt a wet kiss being placed to his lower back. Ian’s weight disappeared off of the bed for a split second, before it was back, accompanied by the sound of a bottle of lube being opened.

Slowly - way too slowly - Ian worked the first finger inside of Mickey, and Mickey groaned, burying his face into the soft pillow, teeth digging into his tongue. Ian knew him, though - he knew what he wanted - so there was no need for him to curse at him to hurry up; he rather quickly added another finger, spreading them to stretch him open.

“Oh, god - just fucking give it to me,” Mickey gave into himself, and complained anyway. He couldn’t take this - usually, he could, and usually he would enjoy it, but not tonight. It felt as if he had been trapped in the desert for a week, and Ian was handing him a shot glass of water to drink.

“You’re the boss,” Ian said, the statement punctuated by a slap to Mickey’s right ass cheek. Mickey made a noise way too close to a whimper, his hands balling up into fists once again, short nails digging into his palms. He took a moment to breathe into the pillow as he heard the noise of a condom wrapper, and the bottle of lube being opened again. Then, it seemed Ian threw the stuff down onto the floor, and his hands were back on Mickey’s hips, holding him straight as he pressed the head of his cock against him. When he entered, Mickey moaned, but the noise was overpowered by the groan that left Ian, and Mickey could feel his hip bones pressed against his ass, a few strands of his hair tickling his shoulder, as if he couldn’t quite keep his back straight.

“You ok, man?” Mickey sighed, already out of breath.

“Fine,” Ian assured him, dropping a kiss to his shoulder blade before he straightened up. “Just haven’t - haven’t done this in so long - at all - and it’s you, fuck, Mick, I don’t know if I’m gonna last.”

“How about you fucking find out?” Mickey asked, his eyes closed, though he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face. Ian’s hands gripped his hips, and he pulled his cock out, almost all the way, before he entered him again; then he quickly picked up the pace, starting to thrust his hips. Mickey wondered if he was moving to the beat of the music out on the street, but he was too gone to worry about it. “Fuck - fuck me,” Mickey hiccuped; his face was no longer buried in the pillow, instead he had his arms wrapped around it, keeping it close to himself, underneath his chin as he moved his body backwards to meet Ian’s movements.

“Oh, god,” Ian cried. Mickey brought one of his arms back, his hand grabbing a hold of Ian’s ass. “Don’t do that, Mick,” Ian said. “I’m not gonna fucking last, I fucking told you,” he groaned, and Mickey let go of the pale flesh, instead bringing his hand to his cock, starting to jerk himself off in time to Ian’s thrusts.

“Right fucking there,” Mickey cursed when the tip of Ian’s cock brushed past that one spot inside of him that caused his limbs to go weak; as he worked himself, his throat soon dried out, and small beads of sweat begun forming at the back of his neck. “Fuck - fuck, come with me - fuck,” Mickey cursed, half there already.

Ian had been right - neither of them lasted very long at all. Mickey came first, before collapsing onto the bed, and tightened his hold on Mickey’s hips, spilling into the condom, Mickey’s name rolling off of his tongue more times than either of them could be bothered to count.

Out of breath, they fell into a pile of sweaty limbs. Mickey flipped onto his back to get some more air, and without a second thought, his arm was wrapped around Ian, his head on Mickey’s shoulder. For a good few minutes, there was silence - except for their heavy breathing, and the muffled music still coming from outside. Mickey stared up into the damaged ceiling, his tongue darting out to lick across his dry lips.

“I love you,” Ian was the one to break the silence. Mickey found himself surprised. They had never really been the kind of people to say that to each other - at least not very often, but it had only been a few minutes since they had last heard it leave each other’s lips, and Ian felt the need to say it again? Why? Though, just because Mickey was surprised, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t appreciate the way the words sounded.

“I love you, too,” he said, and when he felt Ian tilt his head up to look at him, he looked back. For a moment, they stared at each other, and then Ian cracked a smile, stretching his neck to press a kiss to Mickey’s lips. Mickey sighed into it, kissing him back, their noses brushing as he unwrapped his arm from around Ian’s body, and he climbed on top of Mickey, their legs tangled together.

“I love you,” Ian said again. “I love you,” he repeated. “I’m so fucking sorry. I love you,” he said in between kisses, and finally Mickey had to frown, the kiss breaking as he stared up at him. He didn’t have to say anything - Ian knew what he was asking. “I just - you were so fucking right,” Ian sighed, collapsing on the mattress again, right next to Mickey. “You - just - you never did anything but love me, and I treated you like shit, and you’re taking me back, and I just - “

“Let’s get one thing clear, man,” Mickey interrupted him. He was somewhat scared to spoil the moment, but he needed to say this. He rolled over onto his side, his palm supporting his head as he looked down at Ian. “This bipolar shit, whatever happens with that - I’m here, and whatever fights and shit - whoever you think is hotter in some stupid TV show - I don’t give a shit - but if you ever - Ian, if you ever fucking cheat on me again, or throw me under the bus like you did with your psychopath sister - I will never -“ Ian tried to kiss him, but Mickey stopped him. He needed to say the words. “I will never, ever forgive your ass for some bullshit like that, ever again. You got that? That’s gonna be it.”

Ian swallowed, visibly, but his eyes never shifted from Mickey’s.

“I know,” he confirmed, his voice as serious as Mickey had ever heard it. “I know, Mick. I know that.” Mickey nodded.

Then something happened - Ian smiled. So Mickey smiled. And seemingly by the wave of a wand, the bad energy was gone, and they laughed into another deep kiss.

—————

A few days later saw another beach party, and though Ian had seen Nick and Nathan around, it was the first time that Mickey really got a chance to bring him into their little group of friends. Nick, Nathan and Spencer were sitting on a blanket, a little bit outside of the largest part of the crowd, and Mickey found himself just a little bit nervous as he brought Ian over - it seemed he had nothing to worry about, though, because the way Ian shook everybody’s hands, and the way they all immediately started a conversation, it was as if he had been a part of it all, all along.

“Yo, where’s Dave, by the way?” Mickey had to ask eventually.

“Oh, Nick drove him to rehab - he finally agreed,” Nathan nodded towards his brother, and Mickey raised his eyebrows at the information.

“Damn, good for him,” he nodded. He had never wanted to get involved with it all, especially since the other three had known Dave for a lot longer than he had, but sometimes, when Dave had managed to stay clean for a week or two - maybe even three - he always looked a lot better, a lot happier. Mickey sure as hell hoped he would be able to get the help he needed to get it all back on track.  
  
The conversation continued for a few minutes, before Ian brought up the million dollar question.

“John - or Sherlock?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, and as the conversation grew heated with arguments, the noise faded, and he looked at Spencer. Spencer looked at him, and then he blinked once - slowly - with a faint smile on his face. Mickey knew what it meant - it meant ‘it’s okay.’ Mickey may be in love with Ian - and he always would be - but he loved Spencer, and he always would. His best friend. ‘Thank you,’ Mickey mouthed. It meant everything. Thank you for being my friend, thank you for taking my mind off of my fucked up life, thank you for being there when I needed you. Thank you.

Spencer smiled, and Mickey leaned his head against Ian’s shoulder, tuning the sound of his friends’ voices back in.

Maybe things weren’t always going to be like this - but right now, as Mickey sat there, on Mexico’s beach, next to the man he loved, drinking beer with the rest of his friends, he realised something. His life, at least for right now, was just about everything he had always dreamt of. 


End file.
